Requiem?
My grandmother on my father's side died this morning.
I've been so happy for so long that I probably should have seen something of this sort coming. It seems to be a universal truth that anytime anyone anywhere is happy, there needs to be something, some hiccup, some trainwreck, some unforeseen problem that inevitably brings the unheralded winning streak to an abrupt end.
That's just about the most selfish thing I've ever written.
But, as much as nobody wants to admit it, isn't that the way we view things? Of course, I feel horrible for my father. While I was never particularly close with his side of the family, my heart goes out to him. I've watched closely as my other grandmother has deteriorated over the past few years, both physically and mentally. Coping has been an immense trial, and nothing compared to what it must feel like to watch a parent go through such a process.
In the end, though, I can't help but think about this as it relates to myself.
I have two grandparents left, and it's anybody's guess how long that statistic will remain in place. And that gets me thinking.
How many years after that will it be before I begin to bury my aunts? My uncles?
My parents?
I look at my father, both with sympathy and with admiration, because I can't help but wonder:
"Will I be able to cope this well, when the time comes?"
I'd like to think so, but that's not what my heart tells me.
If you know me, you know that if there's one thing I'm bad at, it's letting people go. I don't want to think about the day when it's me saying goodbye to my parents. I rage against the knowledge that someday, it'll be me standing old, wrinkled and hunched besides a casket containing a friend or a loved one who I will have had the misfortune of outliving. I don't want to die alone, because I don't want to think about where everyone else will have gone to in that scenario.
Is there anything quite as sad as growing up?
If there is, I sure haven't found it yet.
I don't want to go to the wake on Wednesday, but moreso the funeral Thursday. Have you ever watched your grown father, a man who for 19 years you've, if not idolized, at least loved and respected, cry? It's the most disheartening, sacriligious thing in the world to watch the salty tears pour from a face that, until now, you believed might as well be chiseled from stone.
I saw it once before, and it's not something that I ever hoped to see again.
It's funny. The combination of Appalachia, the Dropkicks shows, Bob Dylan and the housing process had rendered me so constantly content that I don't know what to do with myself now.
More than anything, though, this is making me realize how much I miss a lot of my friends from home. Even the ones who I've begun to lost contact with - especially the ones I've lost contact with.
If anyone who falls into that category happens to read this, please, feel free to comment. And not to leave sympathies or anything like that. Please, no.
It'd just be nice to start hearing some of those old familiar voices again.
Peace and good karma.
I've been so happy for so long that I probably should have seen something of this sort coming. It seems to be a universal truth that anytime anyone anywhere is happy, there needs to be something, some hiccup, some trainwreck, some unforeseen problem that inevitably brings the unheralded winning streak to an abrupt end.
That's just about the most selfish thing I've ever written.
But, as much as nobody wants to admit it, isn't that the way we view things? Of course, I feel horrible for my father. While I was never particularly close with his side of the family, my heart goes out to him. I've watched closely as my other grandmother has deteriorated over the past few years, both physically and mentally. Coping has been an immense trial, and nothing compared to what it must feel like to watch a parent go through such a process.
In the end, though, I can't help but think about this as it relates to myself.
I have two grandparents left, and it's anybody's guess how long that statistic will remain in place. And that gets me thinking.
How many years after that will it be before I begin to bury my aunts? My uncles?
My parents?
I look at my father, both with sympathy and with admiration, because I can't help but wonder:
"Will I be able to cope this well, when the time comes?"
I'd like to think so, but that's not what my heart tells me.
If you know me, you know that if there's one thing I'm bad at, it's letting people go. I don't want to think about the day when it's me saying goodbye to my parents. I rage against the knowledge that someday, it'll be me standing old, wrinkled and hunched besides a casket containing a friend or a loved one who I will have had the misfortune of outliving. I don't want to die alone, because I don't want to think about where everyone else will have gone to in that scenario.
Is there anything quite as sad as growing up?
If there is, I sure haven't found it yet.
I don't want to go to the wake on Wednesday, but moreso the funeral Thursday. Have you ever watched your grown father, a man who for 19 years you've, if not idolized, at least loved and respected, cry? It's the most disheartening, sacriligious thing in the world to watch the salty tears pour from a face that, until now, you believed might as well be chiseled from stone.
I saw it once before, and it's not something that I ever hoped to see again.
It's funny. The combination of Appalachia, the Dropkicks shows, Bob Dylan and the housing process had rendered me so constantly content that I don't know what to do with myself now.
More than anything, though, this is making me realize how much I miss a lot of my friends from home. Even the ones who I've begun to lost contact with - especially the ones I've lost contact with.
If anyone who falls into that category happens to read this, please, feel free to comment. And not to leave sympathies or anything like that. Please, no.
It'd just be nice to start hearing some of those old familiar voices again.
Peace and good karma.